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He buckled on his gunbelt, then pinned the gaudy tin star to his lapel, buffing it to a dazzling shine with the sleeve of his coat. He could already hear the applause of the audience soaring in anticipation of the showdown between the outlaw and the sheriff. His and Billy’s nightly shootouts had quickly become one of the highlights of the show.

He regretted that tonight was to be their last performance in London, but he’d already booked engagements in Boston and Philadelphia. A smile touched his lips. After tonight’s show, he planned to ride straight over to “Wyndham Manor to find out if a certain starchy spinster had ever considered honeymooning in Boston.

He reached for his pistol, prepared to load it with blank shells and slide it into his tooled leather holster. His hand encountered only empty air.

He frowned down at the table. That was peculiar. Love must be making him daft. He would have sworn he’d left it on the…

The butt of the pistol came crashing down on the back of his head, sending him reeling to the floor.

Esmerelda shoved her way through the throng of cowboys and settlers milling around behind the canvas backdrop of Calamity’s only street, pausing only long enough to give a squirming Sadie a pat on the head. She had to step gingerly over the show’s industrious Indian, who had collapsed from exhaustion as soon as he raced offstage.

Virgil was stomping around in boots, bonnet, and dress, bellowing orders at the top of his lungs when he spotted her.

“Howdy, honey,” he roared, sweeping her into a rib-crunching bear hug. “I sure hope you ain’t here to sing.” The twinkle in his eye assured her that he’d already forgiven her for massacring “Dixie” at the ball.

“Oh, I ain’t—” She shook her head to clear it. “I’m not here to sing. I’m here to find Billy.”

Virgil shook his head. “You’re too late, sweetheart.” For one horrible second, Esmerelda thought he meant the worst. Then he nodded toward the curtain. “He’s already out there waitin‘ to go on.”

The audience’s applause had faded to expectant silence.

Esmerelda drifted toward the curtain, drawn by the same crackling aura of anticipation that held them in thrall.

She peeped through the narrow slit cut in the canvas of the saloon’s painted door. A lone circle of light had already brightened the darkness on the right side of the arena. She shuffled sideways for a better view, only to bump into the silver tea cart Billy would be using for his sharpshooting demonstration. An impish grin curved her lips. Now wouldn’t Mr. Darling be oh-so-surprised when she was the one to come strolling out with the cart?

She thumbed rapidly through the cards until she found the queen of hearts and placed it on top of the deck. She would hold it between her teeth to prove her trust in him if need be.

Billy stepped into that halo of light. Her heart swelled with pride. He might play the bad man for the pleasure of the crowd, but she knew beneath that sinister exterior beat the heart of a man as fine and decent as any she could ever hope to love.

Just as before, she was too enchanted by the sight of him to notice the man in white who appeared at the opposite end of the mock street.

“Throw down your gun, outlaw. I’m the law in this town, and we don’t take to your kind here.”

Esmerelda whipped her head around. That clipped snarl sounded nothing like Drew’s rolling burr. The wide brim of the sheriffs hat shadowed his features.

Billy hesitated, shading his eyes against the glare of the arc lamps. “Haven’t you heard, sheriff?” he said warily. “I never draw my gun unless I plan to use it.”

The man let out a nasty bark of laughter. “Oh, I’ve heard plenty about you, Darling. I’ve heard that you betray the men who hire you. That you spend the gold they entrust you with on your pretty little whore. That you ruin the careers of decent, law-abiding men to further your own.“

A river of ice poured down Esmerelda’s spine as she realized she was about to make the acquaintance of Mr. Thaddeus Winstead, U.S. marshal.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

Billy’s fingers twitched instinctively over the butt of his pistol, making Esmerelda shiver with dread. His pistol was loaded with nothing but harmless blanks, while Winstead’s could only contain live shells.

Billy took a step backward, revealing the precise moment he realized that same inescapable truth.

“Why don’t you run?” Winstead taunted. “I have no compunctions about shooting a yellow-bellied traitor in the back. I licked you white-trash southern boys once and I’ll do it again.”

“Oh, yeah,” Billy drawled. “You and what Union army?”

Esmerelda clapped a hand over her mouth, remembering the Union “soldier” at the masquerade ball. Dear God, Winstead must have been tracking Billy even then.

As Billy continued to back slowly down the street, the crowd leaned forward in their seats, believing the unfolding drama was all part of the show.

Esmerelda looked frantically around. She couldn’t just stand by and let Billy be gunned down in cold blood. Virgil and Jasper were nowhere in sight, so she snatched up the loaded Colt.45 from the tea cart. But she was no Billy Darling. Her hands were shaking so hard she doubted she could hit the side of an elephant at point-blank range.

Winstead’s hands flexed over his gunbelt. Billy took another step backward, but he was utterly defenseless—a helpless target for a vengeful madman.

Esmerelda grabbed a handful of dimes in her other hand and raced into the mock street.

Billy’s name tore from her throat in a raw scream as she cast the dimes heavenward like a fistful of shimmering prayers. Distracted by their glitter, Winstead took his eyes off of Billy for a heartbeat.

That was all the time Esmerelda needed. She tossed the loaded gun at Billy. He caught it, cocked it, and fired, all in one smooth motion.

It was a clean shot. Right through Winstead’s thigh. He collapsed, clutching his leg and howling in pain.

The audience surged to their feet, applauding wildly and screaming for an encore. Virgil and Jasper came sprinting across the arena toward Winstead. They never had been able to tolerate anybody but them bullying their little brother.

Esmerelda never stopped running. She ran right into Billy’s outstretched arms. As he swept her up in his embrace, she buried her face in his sweat-dampened throat.

“You foolish, foolish girl,” he scolded, giving her a halfhearted shake even as he devoured her face with his lips. “What would you have done if he’d have fired at you?”

“Ducked?” she ventured before pressing her mouth to his for a fierce kiss.

They were still kissing when Drew came stumbling into the spotlight, gripping his head and wearing nothing but a pair of immaculately starched drawers.

“Damn, that sun is bright,” he muttered, sinking to his knees.

Esmerelda was shocked to see Anne come flying past them. Her aunt sank down beside Drew and gently cradled his head to her bosom, crooning in dismay.

“Don’t fret, lass,” he said, blinking up at her as if she were his guardian angel. “He didn’t hit me nearly as hard as you did.”

Esmerelda didn’t even realize that it wasn’t Billy but her grandfather stroking her hair until he murmured, “What a brave girl. What a smart girl. You do an old man proud.”

She turned her head to give him a look that was both hopeful and disbelieving. “I make you proud?” She nodded toward the tiers of benches, where people were beginning to point and nod and whisper behind their cupped hands as they realized they’d been witness to a genuine drama instead of a contrived one. “Even after causing such a scandal?”

Her grandfather beamed at her, his ruddy face aglow. “Especially after causing such a scandal.”

As she pressed a kiss to his bald pate, three men detached themselves from the crowd. Two wore Stetson hats and the badges of U.S. marshals while the other rather nondescript young man sported a felt bowler.